


Undisclosed Desires

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, Multi, NSFW, Oral Sex, Smut, Voyeurism, angsty pining, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: No strings attached isn’t supposed to be complicated, but when is anything simple when a Winchester and archangel are involved?





	Undisclosed Desires

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between Unfinished Business and Beat the Devil

“Dean...”  

 

His name spills from your lips in a pleasant moan as his mouth hungrily descends along your neck.  Your eyes slide shut and you sink beneath the sensations he’s creating, all of which are heightened by the recent hunt you’re still coming down from.  

 

This is usually how it happens; impulsively, riding the wave of an emotion, whether it’s drenched in an adrenaline high or laden with the respective weight each of you carry.   

 

Tonight it’s mostly the former with a splash of good old-fashioned shamelessness.  

 

You all have a routine.  Head straight from the garage to the laundry room, soak your clothes, and grab a fresh change there or continue down to the showers.  With Sam and Cas gone, there’d been no need for modesty, and you didn’t say a word when Dean simply followed you in instead of giving you the usual ten minute head start.  

 

You’d barely stripped, and the moment you turn to throw them in the washer he’s on you, hands as hungry as his lips.  

 

“Been thinking about this--” he grabs himself a generous handful of your backside and squeezes, “--that whole time you were walking in front of me.” 

 

You hope he’s talking about the walk  _ in _ considering he was supposed to be keeping his eyes peeled for that werewolf earlier.  It does help nurture the little kernel of pride you’ve tucked away, knowing that someone like him is even distracted by someone like you.  

 

“Get out of those filthy jeans, Winchester, and maybe we’ll talk.”  

 

“Oh, I’ve got something filthy for you.”  

 

He goes back to nibbling along your pulse, and something tingles across your senses.  Something other than what Dean’s doing to you. It’s interrupted by a jarring  _ clang  _ as one of his boots goes flying in haste, colliding with the nearby storage shelves  The other clatters against the wall before his pants fall solidly to the floor, aided by the heaviness of his belt.  

 

His arm snakes around your waist, drawing you back against him where he nestles his growing erection against your ass.  

 

“ _ In  _ the washer,” you clarify because, at this rate, the laundry’s going to be the last thing on either of your minds.  

 

“Mmmmm,” his mouth breaks free to graze along your ear.  “I love it when you get bossy.” 

 

You turn your head to shoot him a withering look, but it’s all playfulness and want, the heat of your desire burning bright within your gaze as your lips twitch.  

 

He bends down and the doorway appears in his absence.  For a moment you think you see something, the shadow of a figure slipping back into the hall, and that previous sensation blossoms across your awareness anew.  You spin around to get a better look, only to come face to face with Dean’s broad chest as he tosses his pants into the machine. 

 

Without a word, he pushes you up against the washer, the cold metal sending chills across your skin.  His lips capture yours, stealing your breath as he kisses you like you’re the only thing in this world he could possibly want.  It’s heady, thoroughly distracting, blotting out your previous misgivings as his tongue pushes insistently into your mouth. 

 

He fumbles for something above you, and the spell is shattered as he nearly drops a box of laundry soap on you head.  

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning into you to grab it.  

 

It’s still there, that feeling of being watched, but when you glance over his shoulder there’s nothing there.  

 

“Gotcha!”  His hand emerges victorious, the item in question held up to the heavens as if gloating to Chuck himself.  He looks down at you, a ridiculously debonair smile stretching across his face, and somehow he makes adding laundry soap look sexy as he tips the box and smolders away at you.    

 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead grabbing the container and tossing it haphazardly aside, a burst of white powder sprinkling along the surface of the dryer where it lands.  He slams the lid to the machine down, hands at your waist as he eagerly hoists you on top of it. 

 

You manage to get out half a reminder to use the hot water before he’s on you again, stealing tastes from your tongue and thoroughly ignoring the task to run his hands along your thighs.  He takes several moments to explore every inch of exposed skin he can reach, fingers digging into your flesh, needy and voracious. 

 

He eventually reaches behind you, not even paying attention to what buttons he’s hitting as he plants his face in your chest.  He’s just twisting knobs and pushing things, too busy worshipping the soft swells spilling out of your bra. 

 

By the time he finally gets the damn thing started, he’s started teasing your nipples through the fabric, and you’re wishing you’d just thrown  _ everything  _ in so you could skip right to the good part.  

 

He eventually moves on, as much to your relief as your dismay, burning a painfully slow trail down the length of your stomach.  He likes to make you squirm, to bring you to the brink of begging before giving you what you need. He avoids anything covered by your panties, warming you up by focusing solely on the inside of your leg  

 

As if you aren’t already dripping wet for him.  

 

“You know, some people say sex on a washing machine can be life changing… if you time it right.”  He pauses a moment, peering up at you beneath those long lashes. 

 

You breath catches in your throat.  He has no business looking that good between your thighs, and the bastard knows it.  Smugness tugs at his lips, a devious glint brightening his gaze before he pulls the edge of your underwear down, just an inch, and begins lavishing the skin beneath it.  

 

You lean back, trying to find a comfortable position as your fingers slide into his hair.  The extra presence resurfaces, overlaying the desire blanketing your mind. 

 

“Dean.”  Your eyes flash up to the doorway, sweeping wide around the room to each empty corner.  You remain tense, knowing all too well that just because you can’t see anything, doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.  

 

“Dean  _ wait _ .”  You grab onto him, forcing him to stop.  You’re about to tell him someone’s there, when you feel it; the way the hair along his arms is standing on end, goosebumps prickling along his skin.  

 

Your eyes widen.  You don’t have to say a thing, and by the knowing look Dean sends your way, you both know who it is.   

 

The first time was an accident.  

 

You almost hadn’t made it into the bunker.  The moment Dean had shut off Baby, he went straight to turning you on.  Not that that had taken much on his part. 

 

In your defense, you’d intended to make it to an actual bed, but the kitchen table was as far as  _ he’d  _ had been willing to go.  You’d challenged him on it, but then he’d put that expert tongue of his to better use and any arguments quickly faded. 

 

That’s how Gabriel had found you, with your legs locked around Dean’s head and coming harder than you had in weeks, thanks to the thrill of being so exposed, and then caught.  

 

The second time, however, and the third (fourth, fifth, and what you suspected might have been at least half a dozen other times) had been a little more deliberate on the archangel’s part.  

 

Dean’s smart, and his instincts are sharp.  If he’s noticing it tonight, there’s a good chance he has all the other times as well.   

 

He pauses, drawing back just enough to look you in the eye.  “Does it bother you?”

 

You know what your answer  _ should  _ be.  Embarrassment.  Shame. Some small smidgeon of modesty.  But the extra rush of heat you get has nothing to do with any of those sentiments.  

 

If you really want privacy, you know where to find it.   As much as Gabriel likes to watch, he has yet to show up anywhere considered off limits; bedrooms, motels, when Dean drives you both to the middle of nowhere so he can jump your bones in peace.  

 

However, acknowledging that to yourself and saying it aloud to… whatever Dean is, are two different things.  

 

Your silence speaks for itself, and he shrugs, the message so clear you can hear his voice in your mind:  _ then let ‘im.   _

 

You gasp, elastic snapping against your skin as he rips your underwear from your body.  It goes sailing over his shoulder, and as he drags you toward the edge of the machine there isn’t much else to say, other than  _ oh god  _ and  _ right there  _ and the occasional expletive as his tongue dives straight for your clit.  

 

He's just as worked up as you are if he's not bothering to leave his mark on your thighs, one if his favorite places to claim.  He waits for the sign, the one that tells him he's found the technique you need at that moment. 

 

Right now, it doesn't matter how he does it.  Everything feels good, to the point you almost wonder if he’s got what you like down to a science.  

 

“Fuck,” your breathy moan spills across the silence.  You’re so close, suddenly hovering at the edge in wait of freefall.  The third to your party re-emerges from the background, subtly flowing into what little space in your awareness isn’t occupied by Dean.  

 

Your hips rock forward as if drawn to the archangel, only it’s Dean’s face you push up against.  He moans, loving your enthusiasm, letting it feed his own until he’s eating you like he’s on the verge of starvation and only your nectar can sustain him.  Between both their attention, the hot band of desire finally snaps, and you bite down on your lip, muffling your cry. 

 

Dean adjusts his pace to the one he knows let's you ride out your orgasm the longest.  It ends in tingling fingers gripping his hair tight and wobbling legs as you begin to move into the realm of being oversensitive. 

 

He leans back, wiping your juices from his face as he stands.  His eyes glitter with satisfaction, lips deliciously rosy as they pull into a grin.

 

“No need to be quiet,” he teases.  “S’no one here but us, sweetheart.”  He pauses, clearly rethinking that statement, and even swimming in endorphins your brain knows enough to stop him there.  

 

You grab behind his head, drawing his mouth to yours.  You can taste yourself on him, and you eagerly slip your hands into his boxers, relishing the way he thrusts into you the moment you take hold of him.  You begin to pump him, thumb brushing over his tip and a spot just below you know drives him wild. 

 

“God, I need to be inside you,” he growls, hooking his fingers beneath his underwear and letting them pool at his feet.  He doesn't bother stepping out of them, and there's a heady  _ something  _ entering the air as he lines himself up with you.  

 

For a moment you forget how to breathe, watching the look of pure ecstasy on Dean's face as he eases inside you, sensing that otherworldly energy ratchet even higher with every inch of Dean's cock that disappears, feeling the burning stretch and fullness as he sheaths himself within you.  

 

You hook your legs up around him, feet digging into his ass, urging him to move.  He starts with slow, even strokes, giving you time to adjust to him, waiting for your impatience to bleed through before he pounds away at you in earnest.  

 

He's long, and even from this angle he's hitting deep enough to make you whine with every thrust.  He reaches up to cup a breast, thumb teasing over a pebbled peak. He pauses, dipping down to catch the other briefly in his mouth before slamming back into you.

 

It never occurs to either of you that you’ve had a little extra help getting out of your bra.  

 

Dean draws things out, changing the pace and then the position when he puts your foot up on his shoulder.  

 

“How are you this flexible?”  He marvels. 

 

You’re not.  The back of your thigh already burns and you can tell you’re going to regret this tomorrow, but there’s nothing you’re lamenting about the angle this gives him or the jolt of sensation you get when he bottoms out with every thrust.  

 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he continues.  “I could stay in you for hours…”

 

You close your eyes, focusing more on the way he makes you feel than the sweet nothings that continue to tumble from his mouth.  Normally, his compliments are like gasoline, igniting your flames in unstable ways, but tonight they’re a distraction as you try to quiet your mind of death and killing and the sheer emptiness that follows when you think about how you’re all just living on borrowed time.  

 

Only you can’t.  Not enough to fully enjoy what he’s doing to you, and you stall halfway back up that peak.  

 

Your fingers rake through his hair, and for the second time you find yourself smothering his lips to shut him up.  You suck in his bottom one, and all gentleness melts away between your teeth as you bite down. There’s always a residual primal edge that follows you after a hunt, one that Dean has no problem rolling with, perhaps even shares himself.   

 

He grunts, taking the hint, breaking your kiss to nip his way down the side of your neck.  When he hits skin that’s certain to hide beneath your clothing, he switches, sucking hard. The ensuing stings refocus you as he throws teeth into the mix, marking the length of your shoulder, and this time when your eyes slide shut there is nothing but his body and yours… 

 

...and the silent partner who’s not so silent this evening.  It feels like Gabriel’s practically on top of you, and an additional thrill races through you at the thought of him ever being.  

 

Dean’s got a sixth sense for these things, and his hand possessively grabs one of your breasts, taking your nipple between his fingers and pinching rougher than he usually would.  It brings him back to the forefront of your mind, and it’s exactly what you need to get you past that plateau. 

 

As your climax rushes through you, you feel the wires in your brain crossing, a surge of gibberish pouring out of your mouth.  At least it sounds like utter nonsense, but later, when your wits return, you’ll recognize every partial word and syllable that sneaks out. 

 

You clench around Dean, pulling a deep rumble from his chest as he fucks you through your orgasm, and the way his pace turns frantic you’ve brought him that much closer to his.  It doesn’t take him much longer before his hips are stuttering, a booming expletive filling the room as he fills you with his seed. 

 

He stands there a moment, allowing you both a moment to catch your breath, and you become aware of just how sweltering it is in there, which is odd considering the entire place tends to run cold.  

 

Thankfully, Dean pulls out, giving you some space before the silence becomes as stifling as the room.  No matter how many times you guys do this, you’re never sure what to say afterwards. 

 

Acting like it’s business as usual tends to put you both at ease.  

 

He walks over to the shelf, tossing a clean hand towel at you before grabbing one for himself.  

 

“Good?”  He asks, giving himself a quick wipe down before glancing up at you.  There’s an unusual reticence to him and his question, and it’s as endearing as it is mind blowing that he doesn’t just assume he’s rocked your world, given his talents.  

 

“Really good,” you assure him.  It’s a lie. It was fucking fantastic.  It  _ always  _ is, though not as life altering tonight as he’d alluded to.  Not that you’re complaining. 

 

The washing machine gives a slight shudder, the entire thing rocking unsteadily as it begins to spin out the water.  For some reason it draws his attention, and his lips unexpectedly purse.

 

You hop down off of it, making sure not to leave behind any evidence of your activities before regarding him.  “What?”

 

“I was - it wasn’t --”  

 

You resist the urge to tell him to spit it out because whatever it is has him frowning which is unheard of after sex.  

 

“I was supposed to make it to the spin cycle,” he finally says.   

 

He was supposed to  _ what  _ now?  

 

He gestures to the machine as if it’s somehow at fault.

 

“Oh.”  Is that how it worked?  You’re admittedly not the sexpert in this equation, so you simply shrug.  “Guess you’ll just have to show me some other time.” 

 

“Yeah?” His face brightens so fast it’s like he’s forgotten the whole friends with benefits thing you have going on.  Maybe there is such a thing as fucking one’s brains out?

 

Though if that were true, Dean would have been a vegetable long before you got your hands on him.    

 

“I mean…”  He tamps down on the response, looking far more casual.  “Yeah. Some other time.” 

 

Your brow creeps up at his strange behavior, and you’re beginning to rethink whether or not he hit his head when the werewolf tackled him down that embankment.  

 

“Now that you mention it, it is pretty shameful, fucking me for only a solid half hour.”  You can’t help the sarcasm from splashing through your words. As good natured as it is, it isn’t until he whips his towel at you that you realize how much this actually bothers him.  It hits you square in the chest, and you reflexively reach up to grab it before it clicks where it’s just been. 

 

You both freeze, and you might feign being grossed out, except you both know you’ve been hit with far more than a few drops of his cum before.  Besides, the look on his face when he realizes what he’s done is well worth it. 

 

Something shifts in the atmosphere, the sweltering warmth dissipating.  For a moment everything feels lighter, invigorating, brighter in ways you can’t explain, other than it has nothing to do with what you can see with your eyes.  Whatever happens is fleeting, and as it fades, a chill descends, the dampness of the bunker returning in full force. 

 

Your own awkward moment passes as all tension seems to vanish with the archangel.  

 

“He’s such a weirdo,” Dean mutters, goosebumps breaking out along his skin.  He grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist before he scoops up an extra set of clothes.  

 

“You’re welcome to join me.”  He thumbs in the direction of the men’s showers, though he doesn’t really give you time to answer before he walks out the door.  

 

The offer is tempting, and it would be slightly confusing if you didn’t immediately feel Gabriel’s absence.  Everything feels more spacious, deserted now that you’re alone, and the contrast is so stark it makes you want to follow him.  

 

You don’t.  Last you checked, that didn’t fall under the category of  _ no strings attached _ , and you’re assuming Dean’s only offering because he notices the difference too.   

 

Besides, now that they’ve cleared out the master suite for you, there’s no reason for you to use the showers when you have your own bathtub.  

 

You snag yourself a few towels, wrapping both around yourself so only your calves and head aren’t covered.  It helps shield you from the chill, but it doesn’t prevent a different kind from worming its way into your mind.  

 

You wonder about Gabriel.  How he’s doing,  _ really  _ doing, beneath the guarded fortress he erects when he’s visible.  Where he goes when he’s not there. But mostly you wonder if it’s as lonely as these walls are for you when neither of them around.  


End file.
